


Mind at Large

by Lilithisbitter



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, BDSM, F/M, Femdom, Stream of Consciousness, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilithisbitter/pseuds/Lilithisbitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She'll save Holmes from himself. And she will remember to let go before he dies. His life is in her hands, seconds being the difference in safe and brain damaged."  Holmes has some dangerous kinks and he'll engage in them like it or not.  In these cases, it's up to Watson to be his guardian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind at Large

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Insperata Floruit, the Watson clan motto means "It has flourished beyond expectation". A fitting motto for any Watson.
> 
> Additional Notes: This was written before the premiere of Elementary. At the time, I put the whole Watson is Half-Scottish bit as a tribute to a conversation I had with a friend. We wanted Watson to be Half-Scottish, Half-Chinese, because that was a logical reason for her having a Scottish last name for the both us.

Watson does this for him because she loves him and if she didn't he would go back to the kiss of the needle. But it scares her either way, the things Sherlock Holmes does that puts the mind he values at risk. And if she didn't do it for him, he would do it himself and never know when to stop. Holmes takes things too far always. Watson was afraid she would come home to their Montague Street address in Brooklyn and find him dead. Dead with one hand on his prick and one hand still stubbornly pulling his scarf in a fatal embrace, with a death erection.

Like many things, Holmes' instances of keeping bees on the roof and his general mess, this was something he could not be talked out of. When Holmes got an idea in his head, the only way he got rid of it was if he felt he had no need for it. He had talked a length about attics and keeping them clean for someone who wanted their apartment undusted. He had a meltdown when she had attacked the worst of the dust because it was bothering her allergies every time she walked inside. “I was kidding about tiding up,” he had griped at her. “Everything has its proper place. Stop being such a nanny.”

If she couldn't talk him out of it, she could play along. She had been a surgeon. She had capable hands, hands that could sense the stilling of a man's pulse. Holmes trusted her hands. "They're good steady hands," he said, clasping his bandaged ink and chemical stained hands over hers. "You wouldn't be my Boswell otherwise." He kissed her hands rather worshipfully for someone who considered kissing to be the most unhygienic act known to man. ("All of those germs in a mouth, Watson. Ick.")

When they have sex… make love …fuck (She's not sure what to call it) they never kiss. She rides him hard, her nails scoring the fur of his chest, drawing blood sometimes. The pink lines stand out in contrast to the ink. Her hands have mapped his tattoos countless times, enough to feel the whisper of the burn scars and track marks he hides beneath them. He’s made a study of tattoos and their origins and his body is his research. Holmes is no different than a doctor who would infect himself to prove a point. There are countless other scars on his body, scars where he was too slow and others where she too late to aid him.

Holmes keeps his fingers away from Watson's own scars, the entry scar that she received in a base raid in Afghanistan and its long thin twin left over from repairing the damage. She had joined the Army Medical Department or AMEDD when she was much younger and more carefree. Her mother and father had been nothing but concerned. What would the army think of a half-Chinese, half-Scottish woman? She had smiled and shrugged and said, "If I never join, we'll never find out."

Six months. Sixth months of being tanned dark by the scorching sun and sand everywhere, but it had been worth it. She sent back letters that she was safe and sound. She spent nights gambling in the mess hall. She got two tattoos, one of Elizabeth Blackwell, the first female doctor in the world (she got asked endlessly who the old lady on her arm was) and the other of her family's motto "Insperata Floruit." She had no idea what it meant, but family loyalty was part of both parts of her heritage.

Her army career ended with a bullet that bit deep into her belly on an army raid. She wouldn't have gotten shot, but she had been operating on someone and had thrown herself over him in an effort to keep the soldier safe. He was younger than she was. He was just a child, just a naïve child who thought he was being a hero, but in the end, he was only one more man bleeding out. If she had to die to keep him safe, so be it. But the bullets kept flying, around her and he caught a bullet in temple and died anyway. When she slowly rose off him, her own torso and scrubs dripping with blood, she saw the bullet had kept traveling through her and into him, winking at her wickedly through the open surgical incision. 

Watson's uterus had been torn apart that day. She couldn't have children. Still a barrier of latex separates the walls of her vagina from his cock. He was a former IV drug user who had several tattooed lovers equally as depraved in their kink if not more so than he. Who knew what went through Holmes' veins now? It would be too much of risk to not wear a condom. He's damaged as much as she. She stares at him and thinks, "Look at him, look at the poor damaged man."

When he shows signs of orgasm, she wraps her hands around his throat, fingers keeping track of his slowing pulse. She'll save Holmes from himself. And she will remember to let go before he dies. His life is in her hands, seconds being the difference in safe and brain damaged. Holmes' body arches beneath her and she lets go of his throat.

His hand brushes her cheek. "Thank you," he rasps.

She doesn't feel thankful. Holmes shifts off the bed and she hears the rustle of a cigarette package. "You shouldn't be smoking after this." She hears his coughing and adds, "Told you."

Holmes presses the cigarette to her lips and gets off the secondhand smoke. It's just another addiction, but there are worse addictions in the world. So many drug addicts turn to smoking heavily after quitting. Most of the time, Holmes smokes in secret. But she can smell it on him. 

One addiction for another. 

One slow death for another.

Perhaps Siger Holmes is right. Perhaps she has no business being a sober companion. "Don't think that," Holmes says.

"Don't tell me you're a mind reader now. Or have you been reading my Facebook page. I keep that locked and you're not one of my friends now for that reason." Watson retorts, cigarette balanced between her fingers. 

"You have a bad habit of making your inner monologues vocal," he replies.

"Oh."

"I don't mind."

And then there's silence. She wishes that this calm could be like this all the time. But Holmes will get bored again and she'll risk damaging him and chipping away at her conscience. She doesn't want to be a killer. 

Not again.


End file.
